


whose love is endless oil and stone

by Llwy



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Edward is kinda there, Eye Trauma, Forests, Ghosts, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26590240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llwy/pseuds/Llwy
Summary: Oswald meets a dear, dead enemy in a forest
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	whose love is endless oil and stone

It's dark in the forest. 

It's dark and cold, and Oswald can feel the night air's teeth bite through his expensive jacket. He warms himself cursing into the silent air, screaming vicious obscenities to those that dumped him here to die. He rages against the trees that circle him, bloodies his fists against their impassive bodies. He will not die here, he promises the forest, he is Oswald Cobblepot and he will make them pay.

His anger cannot hold him forever, however, and eventually he cools, his mind kicking into survival mode. He needs to collect the information available to him, make a plan. He is in a large, dense forest, this he is certain of. The thin moonlight barely penetrates the thick foliage of the looming fir trees, and the forest floor is barren and dead, carpeted by a thick layer of dead pine needles. It’s silent, still. If there is a road nearby then he cannot hear any traffic. They drugged him, and he cannot be sure how far they drove. There are no forests like this near Gotham. He does not know where he is, how far from home he was taken, he knows only the darkness and the looming umbrella branches of the grand old firs.

He should wait until morning. He should stay here until there is sunlight to help guide him. He should be sensible, shut down the panic nipping at his heels and try to rest until he can actually see enough to know where he is going.

Instead, he begins to walk.

It is slow progress over the soft, decaying pine needles, and the lower hanging branches whip at his face constantly, even as he tries to hold them back. His feet sink into the damp ground, and his already tenuous footing is further rocked. He stumbles, hunched over and virulently cursing, and he could swear he hears familiar mocking, spiteful laughter echoing from all around him.

'I am easy to get into but hard to get out of, what am I?' An impossible voice sings from the shadows. It’s cheerful, completely at odds with the setting, and it brings a sudden, sharp pain to Oswald’s chest. He never thought he would hear that voice again, never imagined in his wildest dreams, and his head immediately whips around as he looks around wildly. He expects to see a green suit, glasses, a smile that's all teeth and no charisma. A lean body, all sharp angles and superior height. An enemy, a friend, his love, his nemesis. 

Instead, he sees a shadow against the darkness of the forest, a patch of deeper black against the monochrome surroundings. It stands several feet away, a featureless humanoid whose feet hover several inches above the forest floor. Oswald is frozen for a second, before he abruptly turns his head away. He swallows, continues walking as if he didn't see it. 

'I rather thought that hallucinations were more of your thing than mine.' Oswald replies, despite every ounce of sense in his head telling him not to. He continues walking, ignores the black shape gliding soundlessly on the periphery of his vision. It keeps pace with him easily, dancing between trees with theatrical grace. 

'Wrong! Trouble. I’m trouble, not a hallucination.' It sounds delighted, and Oswald sneaks a look out of the corner of his eyes to see the black shadow clap its hands together enthusiastically. The sound cracks through the silence like a gunshot, and Oswald flinches before he can stop himself.

'You are dead, Edward.' He replies, and each word feels like barbed wire being forced across his tongue. He can still feel the thick, warm wetness across his hands, taste the copper on his lips. 

The shape hums in reply, and Oswald tries to put on a burst of speed as it drifts closer. Its legs don't move, and it comes towards him as if pulled by a rope around its middle. It is faster than he is, would likely still be even without Oswald's mangled leg. He reaches down to his shoe, takes out the knife hidden in the hollow heel. It’s a reassuring weight in his palm, despite the way his hand shakes. 

'You're not real.' He says, mostly in an effort to convince himself. He has always believed in ghosts, something Edward has used against him before to great effect. 'I'm just... stressed.'

The shape is right before him now and it snorts inelegantly, exactly the way Edward always did whenever anyone said something particularly stupid. Even this close it remains indistinct, fuzzy at the edges in a way that makes Oswald's eyes water to look at. It's not black, it’s void, a hole in the shape of the world. The forest bends around it, and even without a face Oswald gets the impression it is grinning at him. 

'I never thought I would see you again, Oswald.' It says fondly, and lays a hand on his arm.

A hand so cold it burns, long fingers curling around the entire circumference of his forearm. It hurts, it hurts more than anything Oswald has ever experienced, cold leeching up his arm and across his chest. He gasps involuntarily, and it chuckles, warm and intimate. It makes him remember meetings with Edward at his shoulder, making snide, sarcastic comments under the guise of giving advice. He feels as if he is dying, as if the cold is stealing the very breath from his chest. He slashes blindly at its arm with his knife and it lets go, hisses as it shifts back a pace. 

‘Don’t you want me, Oswald?’ It asks, low and spiteful. This is closer to how Edward’s voice sounded the last time they saw one another, when Edward used his words to cut Oswald deep, inflict wounds that still bleed sluggishly months later.

‘No.’ He lies, and thrusts the knife into the thing’s chest. 

It sinks in easily, and the thing roars, inhuman and deafening. Its fingers rake along Oswald’s face, leaving star bright troughs of pain in their wake. He stabs again and again and again, his hand frozen around the hilt of the knife. He feels like his skin is boiling off of his flesh, and he cannot see anything through the tears. 

‘Oswald, Oswald, friend, my best friend, you can’t kill me. I’d do anything for you.  _ Anything. _ ’ It begs, its fingers shredding through his shirt like it’s paper. Oswald remembers the sound of lapping water, warm blood dripping through his hands. He remembers the panic, the immediate regret. He remembers the shock on Edward’s face, before bitter spite replaced it. 

He stabs the thing through its neck as it plunges one long, sharp finger through his left eye. Whatever pain he felt before pales before this. It feels like an icicle has been forced through his skull, like his eye is boiling in his head, like his eyelid is being branded with a hot iron. They both scream, loud and piercing, and Oswald watches through a haze of pain, one hand clutching his eye, as it dissolves slowly back into shadow, rolling across the floor like treacle. 

‘Goodbye, Edward.’ He rasps, hoarsely, his knife dropping from numb, useless fingers. The forest is silent once more, but he can see weak streams of dawn sunlight push themselves arduously through the thick foliage surrounding him. It is a gargantuan effort to force himself to walk again, but Oswald is nothing if not strong willed. 

It’s time to go, he has a long walk home.

**Author's Note:**

> written because orca challenged me on twitter to write romance in a forest but my brain was like 'no, you want to write monsters instead.' 
> 
> title is from howl by allen ginsberg


End file.
